


Yond Cassius

by RovingTiger



Category: House of Cards Trilogy (UK), The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: AU, Crossover, Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 19:20:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2593313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RovingTiger/pseuds/RovingTiger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House Of Cards Series 3ish AU. Urquart encounters the opposition's spin doctor, and concludes they are somewhat cut from the same cloth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yond Cassius

The Prime Minister walked briskly away from the lobby, trailed by Booza-Pitt and Carlsen, deep in discussion, but projecting an air of good cheer and satisfaction at a job well done. Plenty enough votes for the second reading, and only the rebels who were too pathetic to countenance or were genuinely owed a favour, Carlson was reporting as they wound up the staircases and deeper into the palace. The party rounded a corner, and Booza-Pitt's customary panegyric to FU was interrupted a harsh, unseen shout echoing from further down the hallway, rising and falling around the punctuation of obscenities.

                "...and you thought you could get away with that did you? Are you Harry fucking Houdini now? That's be at fucking turn up, seeing as its been eight years here and you've yet to pull of your greatest escape yet, getting your own head out of your arsehole!  How dare you. No-one gives a shit about Cuntington-on-the Wold and its fucking newt population, or leisure centre, or whatever inconsequential bollocks this shitshow is about. We are in the fucking doldrums here, hoping that FU's fucking windbaggery about common decency, whatever the bollocks that is, lifts enough of a breeze to at least get us round the cape. What we don't need right now is the fucking cabin boy, actually, scratch that, the fucking ship's monkey that apparently starts to look kinda pretty after six months at sea, shitting everywhere, hurling it at the captain and pissing in the rum. If you don't toe the line, I'll sit you in front of Paxman at ten tonight, and he will fuck you over so hard you'll be leaking from your fucking lymph nodes. Do you think we actually need you? Because there's eighteen Airfix identikit fucks with at least an ounce of grey matter between them that we're ready to parachute into your cosy safe seat like Rambo, and it'll be a pretty fucking one sided bloodbath. Your six-fingered constituents would vote for a balloon on a stick, or a really fucking sexy horse, so get your delusions of grandeur out of your hollow fucking head, you bottom feeding waste of blood and organs. And once you've filed into the right lobby under the gaze our new whips, who are basically fucking Sauron, right, but unlike the dark lord they know about your fuck-ugly mistress in Edgware, either piss off back to your constituency hovel and lie low for a week or two sorting out arguments over hedges and footpaths, or get a garden hose and fit it to your exhaust pipe, I couldn't give a flying fuck. Get out of my sight."

                The trio, halted at the end of the corridor, heard the click of a door opening and watched a small, crumpled looking man hurry out and down the corridor with a coat and briefcase tucked under his arm without a glance. He was soon followed by a rangy, dark haired man in a grey suit, who spotted the trio and gave the slightest incline of the head before setting off after the hapless MP.

                "Goodness. The sort they let in here these days."

                "Quite, Geoffrey. Actually, I believe we're done here, except Elizabeth is helping to host some Cadets in the Speaker's chambers, I might drop in and surprise them. I'll meet you two back at Number 10 in an hour or so, I'm sure you can keep yourselves busy until then."

                "I do believe we can, can't we Claire?"

                Claire rolled her eyes a little at Geoffrey's shiteating grin. "Yes, we'll chase up those crime stats for when you get back."

                "Thank you Claire." Francis smiled as they walked off.

Malcolm Tucker. He has a mean and hungry look, that man. A touch lurid, perhaps, but evidently effective. Not even a whip, more of a glorified PR consultant like O'Neill, and not even a graduate of either, or indeed any university. And yet, he wields more power than I ever dared to in my more youthful days as the keeper of the black books.  He and I are not so different, you know. For all the bluster of the bully of the schoolyard and the tyrant of the shop floor, behind that he more than any other among the opposition understands the true nature of men, and the true nature of power. They tell stories of how he bends men to his will, or breaks them.

In this business, one must be a fox to spot the snares and a lion to overwhelm the wolves. Granted, the Right Honourable Mr Parkin there was more of a sheep, but these last few years, Tucker has brought down some of their most poisonous characters quietly or with the most horrendous to-do, as suits his purposes. It's made my job that much harder. As fire drives out fire, so pity, pity. He recognises that men should be caressed, or crushed; it leaves the public and his party both satisfied and stupefied. The honourable gentleman across the dispatch box is patently a fool, but he betrays a little credit in employing Tucker. He has isolated the axiom that appearances and results are key, and the tide is beginning to turn, although it will be years yet before it begins to lap around my feet. And rest assured, I will not merely command the tide to turn, as much as Geoffrey might recommend it. Thankfully he can only do a little damage to me, such is our dominance at the ballot box and the paucity of their talent beyond Tucker's circle. I shudder to think what he would have achieved under Collingridge.

I must admit admiration for such a talented dissimulator, who has given up even the pretence of seeking love, and is most comfortable being feared. And yet, the danger comes from his devotion to his party. He seems to be merely a proxy for the party, not even its ideology, but seeks the power itself, for its own sake and for the party's sake. A rare case on either side of the floor, and, and I fear it makes him nigh on impossible to corrupt. He certainly has a mean and hungry look that I doubt I could satisfy. I have no doubt he has some stratagem to pitch his party back into the realms of electability and beyond. I will be watching him very closely,  and not without a measure of appreciation; at least until he mops up his own party and comes at the last for me.

Elizabeth has a wonderful tendency to point me towards new challenges.

I think I'll surprise her today, because I think I've found one of my own.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel I should credit Machiavelli and Shakespeare - this was largely inspired but a youtube video of Capaldi reciting exerpts from The Prince. Can you tell I enjoy writing Malcolm and his tirades? Rated mature for language.


End file.
